The Gallery
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly Hooper celebrates every birthday but her own. Sherlock Holmes is on the case! Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes did not do birthdays, and when he overheard pathologist Molly Hooper say the same thing to one of her colleagues early in their acquaintance, he knew that he had found a kindred spirit. Of course, he had known this already. He had been drawn to Dr. Hooper from their first meeting. She was sweet, and warm, and just slightly nutty, as witnessed by her choice of occupation and her rather morbid sense of humor. Something like a hot fudge sundae. And who wouldn't be drawn to a hot fudge sundae, Sherlock mused.

But there were, of course, other things which drew him. She was brilliant, almost as brilliant as he, possibly, but without the sharp edges and the arrogant attitude. And lovely, with a soft, unassuming beauty which complemented his sharp edges and dark looks. And so, never acknowledging that he cared for her in any way other than as a friend, and barely acknowledging that he tolerated friends at all, he had slowly let Molly Hooper into his life, until she now occupied a place there never to be filled by anyone else. Even after he found out that her statement about "not doing birthdays" was totally one-sided.

He had discovered this fact almost six years ago, when she had presented him with a new cashmere scarf to replace the one he had lost in a chase, he said. He had actually given said scarf to a homeless woman in payment for a hot tip on a cold case, along with a significant amount of cash. But it was a cold night, and the money would do nothing to keep her warm, so he had wrapped his favorite scarf around her before she staggered off. But it wouldn't do to have his circle of friends have any knowledge of an such act of charity, even one as self-motivated as it had begun, so he invented the story of a desperate chase, a near strangulation, and the scarf disappearing into the wheel well of a getaway vehicle. He was never sure if Molly had believed his cover story, as her good humored, "Happy birthday!" was accompanied by a knowing wink. He had simply muttered a brief, "Thank you," and worn the scarf to this very day.

He soon discovered that Molly Hooper was a veritable birthday fairy, spreading joy, and good wishes, and even gifts, to all on sundry on their appointed days. She never seemed to miss one of any significance, whatsoever. Even his brother Mycroft received a homemade chocolate cake every year, which he never seemed to share, as the man would simply disappear with it into his large black car, an avaricious, and somewhat gluttonous, look upon his face. Perhaps Anthea got a piece.

And every year, Sherlock would receive something. Something small, but thoughtful, like Molly herself. One year it was an antique magnifying glass. Another, a keychain with a silver plated and engraved USB drive. The only other person in this world with the temerity to defy his "no birthday gift" edict was his brother, who would send inane and disturbing gifts, such as a stuffed Irish setter, almost life sized, to remind him of his dead pet, Redbeard, or a ridiculously feathered pirate hat in homage to his childhood predilections. Mycroft, of course, annoyed him, but he could not bring himself to be annoyed by Molly Hooper. But why would she ignore her own birthday when she so obviously enjoyed celebrating everyone else's? As the saying goes, inquiring minds want to know!

His first step was to determine when, exactly, her birthday was. A simple enough task, accomplished through surreptitious examination of her driver's license. June 24. Midsummer Day, the feast of St. John the Baptist. Nothing particularly upsetting about that, unless you had an inordinate fear of bonfires. This would require further investigation, indeed, and it didn't take him long to find the death certificate of one Matthew Michael Hooper, husband of Margaret Mary Maguire Hooper, father of Mary Margaret Hooper. Molly. His Molly. And the father she had adored, the man who looked sad when he thought no one was looking, had died on her sixteenth birthday. Sherlock knew the man had been sick for quite some time, as Molly had, rather sadly, told him once, long ago. And it seems that he had died of cancer, lung cancer. Which could certainly go a long way to explain her anger every time he lit up on of his foul foreign cigarettes. He had found the mystery of Molly Hooper's aversion to her own birthday, and now he had to do something to fix it. But what?

Midsummer was fast approaching before Sherlock Holmes came up with a plan. He wanted to do something which would serve to ease his pathologist's troubled associations with the day of her birth, to remind her that there is more to the day than death, or the memory of death. Which may prove to be a difficult task given her chosen occupation, where she was constantly reminded of the fleetingness of life, as well as its inevitable conclusion. But the detective had an idea, and started to work on it.

June 24 was a Wednesday that year, and he made his way to St. Barts to put his plan in motion.

"Molly, I shall expect you for takeaway and telly this evening, as usual," Sherlock said with a small flourish.

"Not tonight, Sherlock. I'm staying in tonight."

"But Molly, we usually do something on Wednesdays! I am a creature of habit, after all. I do not like change. Wednesdays at Baker Street. Fridays at your flat. And Sundays with the Watsons. Is there a problem?"

Molly heaved a sigh, perhaps indicating her feelings about the way her life was turning out. The weeks passed just as Sherlock had indicated. Her circle of friends had been shrinking, now centering almost entirely around Sherlock Holmes and John and Mary Watson, with an occasional sprinkling of tea with Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't dated in ages, and really had felt no inclination to do so. Sherlock Holmes was the love of her life, and it seemed to be turning out that she was the "like" of his. And if that was all she would ever be, it seemed that now she was willing to settle for that. And possibly a few more cats. But she still didn't feel like sharing this day with him, and, him being the world's only consulting detective, she was more than a litle sure that he knew why.

"Not tonight, Sherlock. I just want to…"

"I know it's your birthday, Molly. And if you don't want to celebrate, that's just fine with me. But it is our usual nigh to do something. So, Chinese or Indian?"

The petite woman sensed that she was not going to win this argument, so she smiled briefly and said, "Indian, I think. And shall I bring the Star Trek video?"

"Whatever you prefer, Dr. Hooper. After all, it is your …" But the detective stopped short at her sharp look. "See you at seven, then?"

"Right, seven," Molly muttered as she returned to her microscope, and Sherlock made his exit.

The evening had gone quietly and uneventfully, as most of these evenings did. The only thing out of context, out of place, was the small easel standing in the corner of the sitting room. There was obviously a canvas underneath the paint-stained covering, but Sherlock had not mentioned it all evening. Molly knew that at some point in his life Sherlock Holmes had been considered a promising artist. Mycroft Holmes had told her as much during one of their conversations during the detectives two year absence, his pretended death. The younger Holmes was deemed to have been particularly adept at painting landscapes, and still life. But his teacher had decided that he lacked the emotional depth and sentimental leanings necessary to truly express the empathetic qualities needed in portraiture. In any case, Sherlock had given up on his painting, channelling all his artistic energy into mastering the violin, where he seemed to have no problem expressing his passion. Molly had been glancing at the easel all evening, her curiosity growing even more due to her companion's seeming indifference to this curiosity. She couldn't stand it any longer.

"Sherlock, are you ever going to tell me what that is standing in the corner there?"

"It's an easel, Molly. Surely you know what an easel is?"

"God, you can be so annoying, Sherlock! What's on the easel? Have you gone back to your painting?"

"How did you know I can paint, Molly?"

"Mycroft may have mentioned…"

"Mycroft has does nothing but denigrate my talent since I painted his portrait while I was away at school, and then sent it to his new place of employment in Whitehall. I thought perhaps he could hang it in his new office."

"Was it that bad, Sherlock?"

"It was perfectly charming, Molly. He was also perfectly, or rather, imperfectly, naked, a fact for which he had never forgiven me," Sherlock said with a snicker.

"May I?" Molly said, gesturing toward the easel.

"Of course."

The smiling woman approached the easel, and lifted the cloth carefully, only to drop in on the floor in shock. For there was a portrait of her father. Not the father she, unfortunately, remembered, but the father she wanted to remember. He was hale and hearty, happy, and healthy. It was a bright summer day, and he was smiling affectionately down at a girl in her mid-teens, who was bending slightly, brushing her long brown hair back over her left ear in a familiar way, the better to blow out the candles on the birthday cake which sat on the picnic table in front of them. Their hair was the exact same shade of brown, highlighted with gold as it caught the midsummer sun. And their brown eyes were both shining with a shared affection.

"How did you know? You' ve never seen him!"

"Ah, but I have seen photos of him in those albums you hide in the back of your closet, Molly. You know what an inveterate snoop I am."

Molly could barely take her eyes from the portrait of her father. The way she remembered him, now, the playfully lively man she had known in her youth, before the pain and worry had consumed him, when his happy face was a reality, not a mask he wore for his loved ones. This was the way her birthday should have been, and Sherlock had given it back to her. She finally moved her gaze to the birthday girl. She knew it was herself, it was obvious. But she never thought of herself as looking quite like that. Her hair shone brightly, her lips formed a bit of a pouting smile as she prepared to blow out her candles, and her eyes were alive with happiness. She was beautiful. She couldn't help but wonder if this was the way Sherlock saw her. And when she finally turned to look up at him, and took in the way he was peering down at her, she began to think that, perhaps, he did. So, not waiting to think about it, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him almost to the point of cutting off his breath.

She heard his voice rumble against her as he said, "So, Molly, do you really like it?"

When she replied, her words were muffled by his shirt, "Oh, god, Sherlock, I so much more than really like it! I love it! I love it so much…"

Molly could feel his shoulders move, as his arms started their journey away from his sides. She fully expected him to grab her shoulders, and gently, but firmly, push her away. But instead, she was surprised to feel his long arms encircle her, pulling her even closer, as if that were possible.

"I'm so glad, Molly. Because I must tell you that I so much more than really like you. In fact…" He cleared his throat as he hesitated, and the smaller woman, realizing how difficult expressing sentiment was for the man in her arms, ended his misery by standing on her tiptoes, and making further words completely unnecessary.

Later that night, as they lie in each other's arms, Sherlock Holmes considered how fortunate he truly was. John Watson went through such agony trying to select the proper gifts for Mary on every occasion. But Sherlock had his future gift giving all mapped out. For this coming Christmas, he could paint a companion piece to this one. One of Molly and her mother this time, the older woman helping his bride put the final touches on her wedding preparations. Her next birthday gift could be one of Molly Holmes struggling to bend over a microscope, her long white lab coat straining to cover her pregnant belly. A long line of paintings covered the walls of his mind palace, and down toward the end was a birthday portrait of Molly at midsummer, silver streaking her hair, sitting in a chair in the warm sunlight, gazing, hopefully lovingly, at a tall man with silver curls who tended to his beehives a short distance away. They say that art imitates life, and he couldn't wait to get started living this particular gallery.


End file.
